“A pudding without plums,” said Sir Ascot, who was a bit of a wag in a quiet way; and “A fiddle without strings,” suggested the Major at the same moment.
“Exactly,” replied Lacquers, quite satisfied; “well, my dear fellow, I’m a man that adores all that sort of thing. ’Gad, I can’t do without talent, and music, and so on. Do I ever miss an opera? Didn’t I half ruin myself for Pastorelli, because she could dance? Now, I’ll tell you what”—and the speaker, lighting a fresh cigar, forgot what he was going to say.
“Then you’re rather smitten with Miss Kettering, too,” observed D’Orville, who, as usual, was determined not to throw a chance away. “I thought a man of your many successes was blasé with that sort of thing;” and the Major smiled at Sir Ascot, whilst Lacquers went off again at score.
“To be sure, I’ve gone very deep into the thing, old fellow, as you know; and I think I understand women. You may depend upon it they like a fellow with brains. But I ought to settle; I ‘flushed’ a grey hair yesterday in my whiskers, and this is just the girl to suit. It’s not her money I care for; I’ve got plenty—at least I can get plenty at seven per cent. No, it is her intellect, and her refusing Uppy, that I like. What did you say, my boy? how did you begin?” he added, thinking he might as well get a hint. “Did you tip her any poetry? Tommy Moore, and that other fellow, little What’s-his-name?” Lacquers was beginning to speak very thick, and did not wait for an answer. “I’ll show you how to settle these matters to-morrow after parade. First I’ll go to——Who’s that fellow just come in? ’Gad, it’s Clank—good fellow, Clank. I say, Clank, will you come to my wedding? Recollect I asked you to-night; be very particular about the date. Let me see; to-morrow’s the second Sunday after Ascot. I’ll lay any man three to two the match comes off before Goodwood.”
D’Orville smiles calmly. He hears the woman whom he intends to make his wife talked of thus lightly, yet no feeling of bitterness rises in his mind against the drunken dandy. Would he not resent such mention of another name? But his finances will not admit of such a chance as the present wager being neglected; so he draws out his betting-book, and turning over its well-filled leaves for a clear place, quietly observes, “I’ll take it—three to two, what in?”
“Pounds, ponies, or hundreds,” vociferates Lacquers, now decidedly uproarious; “thousands if you like. Fortune favours the brave. Vogue la thingumbob! Waiter! brandy-and-water! Clank, you’re a trump: shake hands, Clank. We won’t go home till morning. Yonder he goes: tally-ho!” And while the Major, who is a man of conscience, satisfies himself with betting his friend’s bet in hundreds, Lacquers vainly endeavours to make a corresponding memorandum; and finding his fingers refuse their office, gives himself up to his fate, and with an abortive attempt to embrace the astonished Clank, subsides into a sitting posture on the floor.
The rest adjourn to whist in the drawing-room; and Gaston D’Orville concludes his rounds by losing three hundred to Sir Ascot; “Uppy” congratulating himself on not having made such a bad day’s work after all.
As the Major walks home to his lodgings in the first pure flush of the summer’s morning, how he loathes that man whose fresh unsullied boyhood he remembers so well. What is he now? Nothing to rest on; nothing to hope for—loving one—deceiving another. If he gain his object, what is it but a bitter perjury? Gambler—traitor—profligate—turn which way he will, there is nothing but ruin, misery, and sin.